


Through the Tarlatan Holes

by doloploke



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Flashbacks, Found Families, Gen, Post-Season 2, Slight Emotional Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-15
Updated: 2017-05-15
Packaged: 2018-10-31 22:48:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10909044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doloploke/pseuds/doloploke
Summary: “If Roy was a sentimental man, he might reflect that this is what family really means—dropping everything to drive for forty-five minutes in the rain because a kid texted him for help. But Roy isn't a sentimental man, so he doesn't worry about putting a name to why he's doing this. He just does it.”A companion to "The World May Be Long For You"





	Through the Tarlatan Holes

**Author's Note:**

> AN: Title from "The Gymnast High Above the Ground," which is also the song that is playing during Dick's trapeze routine. 
> 
> The references to Paris were inspired by Nightwing: Rebirth #7 and #8.

_hey, i can't really be at home right now. can i crash with you?_

_be right there_

 

If Roy was a sentimental man, he might reflect that this is what _family_ really means—dropping everything to drive for forty-five minutes in the rain because a kid texted him for help. But Roy isn't a sentimental man, so he doesn't worry about putting a name to why he's doing this. He just does it. 

The rain has cleared up by the time he reaches the ornate iron gates of Gotham Academy. It's still chilly, despite the brightening sky—gooseflesh prickles at Roy's arms beneath his leather jacket. He eases his bike to a stop near the curb, drops the kickstand and leans against it all casual. He considered joining the carpool lane with all these suburban moms in late-model minivans, but that seemed like a little far to go for a joke.

This isn't the first time Roy's been here. One of Dick's first acts of teenage rebellion was to tell everybody on the team, including Roy, his secret identity, which is probably the most adorable act of rebellion Roy's ever heard of. He's dropped by Dick's school a few times before, sometimes at Dick's request, sometimes just to check in on the kid. Still, Gotham Academy kind of weirds him out. It's fancy, all neat lawns and stone buildings, and cleaner than any high school Roy has ever seen. It's hard to picture Dick here. 

A bell rings distantly, and kids start streaming down the crisp lawn towards the line of cars in groups, chattering. It doesn't take long for Roy to pick Dick out from the crowd. He's alone, but he's still got his school face on—slicked back hair, vague smile, mousy set to the shoulders. When he catches sight of Roy, his expression twists into a real grin, half annoyed, half fond.

In a second Roy sees why—a bunch of high school girls are staring at him and giggling. Roy stretches his arms out above his head in a way that makes his shirt ride up and the muscles in his stomach stand out. He's only human.

“Show-off,” Dick grumbles. Roy just grins at him.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he says, and musses up Dick's hair. That's better.

“You didn't have to come all the way here, y'know,” Dick says sheepishly as Roy hands him a spare helmet. “I was gonna drive down myself.”

“Are you even old enough to drive?” Roy asks, slinging his leg over his bike.

“Har har.” Dick slides into position behind him, his knees pressing against Roy's thighs, his arms a vague warmth around his waist.

Just before Roy kicks his bike to life, he feels Dick's head bump softly against his shoulder.

“Thanks, man,” Dick says, his voice just above a whisper.

“Anytime, kid.”

The bike roars under them as they peel away from the curb. If Dick says anything else, Roy doesn't hear it.

 

 

For the past couple of months, Roy's been subletting a one bedroom above a deli in one of the less seedy parts of Bludhaven. It's a base of operations and not much else, but it's better than living with Ollie. He'll probably be moving on soon anyway.

Dick makes himself at home right away. He slips out of his shoes by the door and shucks off his school blazer, then collapses on the couch. He messes with his collar, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the top buttons. When he's done, his head thunks against the armrest, and his eyes close. He looks bone-weary and very young.

Roy pads over to the kitchen and opens the fridge. It's pretty bare—just a slab of tofu, some broccoli, and leftover chicken parm that's probably gone off by now. But there's a six pack of beer in the door, which is good.

The bottles of beer clink as Roy sets them down on the end table. Dick raises an eyebrow at him.

“Dude, you know I'm, like, _way_ underage, right?”

Roy smirks. “Yeah, I know, I'm a bad influence. You want one?”

“Yeah, sure.” Roy hands Dick an open bottle, and opens one for himself. If Dick's old enough to get shot at and beat half to death, he's old enough to have a beer if he wants one. Bats can fight him on that one.

Roy settles himself on the other side of the couch and takes a long pull from his own beer. Its bitter fizz feels good against his throat, and he allows himself to relax. Next to him, Dick has folded himself into a perfect lotus pose, his beer bottle resting in the hollow between his heels.

“Can't you sit like a normal person?” Roy snorts. Dick sticks his tongue out at him.

“This makes my hip feel better. The chairs at school are super hard and uncomfortable, so it gets all stiff.” Dick lifts up the hem of his shirt to show him, as if Roy could see the stiffness under his skin.

He can't, of course. All he sees is a mess of scar tissue and spidery keloids. The remains of a gunshot wound. Roy hadn't been there when Robin got shot, didn't even find out that the kid had been hurt until a month after it happened.

It's not his fondest memory.

“Whatever,” he says, not unkindly. “Wanna watch TV?”

“Definitely,” Dick says, grinning like a loon.

It's still early in the evening, so there's not much on. Dick wants to watch _Dirty Dancing,_ which is playing on cable, but Roy emphatically vetoes that. (“C'mon, Roy! You're putting baby in a corner! Nobody puts baby in a corner!” “I said _n_ _o._ ”) Then they try watching _CSI_ for a while, but it just makes Roy mad. (“That's absurd! Blood splatters do not work like that!” “Yeah, Roy, I know, but it's a _TV_ _show_.”)

Eventually they settle on the Food Network. They're running a marathon of some cooking competition. One of the judges keeps waxing poetic about the _real, authentic_ macarons he had in Paris, and all the ways the contestants' efforts have failed to measure up. He over-pronounces “macaron”, too, turning the _r_ into a long, guttural growl.

“Wow, what an asshole,” Roy chuckles as the judge pulls apart a pistachio macaron and sniffs it disdainfully. “I bet he's never even been to Paris.”

“Nah,” says Dick, tipping the last of his beer down his throat. His cheeks are flushed pink—Roy thinks he might be a little drunk. “I bet he _has_ been to Paris, but he got his _macarons_ ”--Dick tries to imitate the judge's pronunciations, but breaks off into giggles-- “at the Starbucks at the airport.”

Roy snickers. “Yeah, you're probably right.” The show cuts dramatically to commercial, and Roy gets up to get another beer. When he sits back down, Dick is watching a car commercial and looking strangely introspective.

“I was born in Paris, y'know,” he says. He's aiming for casual, but his voice is tight.

“Wait, really?” Roy says. In his mind Dick's so strongly associated with Gotham, it's hard to imagine him being from anywhere else.

“Mm-hmm. At the _Cirque Romanes de Paris_.” This time his French pronunciation is natural and flawless.

“My mom used to live there, before she joined up with Haly's. She and my dad were there visiting an old friend when she had me. They ended up staying for a couple months because, y'know, newborn.” Dick's smiling, but his eyes are distant, and a little sad. “We went back a few times when I was a kid. The city had long since shut it down, but it was still cool, in a sad kind of way. And it was important to my mom.”

Dick glances at Roy. “You look surprised.”

“I am. I just assumed you always lived in Gotham, even before B,” Roy says.

“Most people do,” Dick says. He sounds resigned. “I guess I don't really talk about it much.”

 _Why are you telling me?_ Roy wants to ask, but he knows it won't come out right. He's honored, not annoyed. So instead he says, “Why not?”

Dick sighs and closes his eyes. “Cuz it hurts,” he says. It's such a simple, honest answer that it takes Roy's breath away like a knee to the gut. His chest tightens with sympathy.

“I feel like I'm not even the same person that I was back then,” Dick continues, eyes still closed. “My life is just so different. And it's not just the whole Robin thing. I mean, I don't perform anymore, I stay in one city for years, I go to this fancy private school, I live in an enormous house with a freakin' _butler,_ and—“ He breaks off into a bitter-edged laugh. “I'm basically _gadjo_ now. So it's not mine to talk about.”

“Does B know that you feel like this?” Roy asks softly. Dick laughs that bitter laugh again.

“What do you think?” he says. “I try to explain it, but...” He shrugs. “He doesn't understand what it's like to lose your people as well as your family.” He opens his eyes and stares at Roy, trusting and needful, as if he could do something to help.

Dick's gaze is heavy, and Roy has to look away. The television is still on, all but forgotten until now. There's a closeup of the eliminated contestant, who's on the verge of tears. Piano music swells as she takes off her apron and walks offstage. Next to him Dick shifts, curling up on himself. Roy is sure he's remembering his family, and the circus.

He thinks suddenly of the only time he ever saw Dick Grayson perform. Christmas Eve, 2011. Dick had still just been Robin to him then. Roy hadn't known they were investigating the circus where Robin grew up—hell, he hadn't even known Robin had grown up in a circus at all. He started to suspect something, though, over the course of the mission. His young teammate moved through the circus grounds with an easy familiarity that couldn't be explained by “thorough research.”

After their last performance as the Daring Dangers, as they were taking their bows, Robin's voice echoed through their mind link.

_I'll join you guys in a minute. I said I'd do a solo act, as a favor to Haly. Plus it makes it seem more like a planned final performance, right?_

It was a flimsy excuse, but before Roy could call Robin out on it, he shut himself out of their mind link.

The lights went down, and the applause petered out. Roy, M'gann, Artemis, and Conner slipped backstage, out of sight of the audience but still close enough to see. Riggers were hurrying around the ring, setting up another trapeze rig. It was different from the one the one that M'gann and Robin had used—it was meant for one person, not two. The trapeze bar was lowered and Robin perched on it, one leg dangling. It was a startlingly familiar position, one that Roy had seen Robin take on 6-inch ledges twenty stories above the ground. It made sense, somehow.

The lights rose slowly, and Robin rose with them. The music started—thrumming acoustic guitar, low and a little melancholy. Then, high above the ground, Robin began to _move._ His body curled and unwinded around the bar and the ropes in time with the music, bending into impossible shapes. His movements were controlled and precise in a way that required intense strength and flexibility. Again, it was familiar—the grace with which Robin now moved was there in the way he fought, in his acrobatic dodges, even in the way he walked. But for the first time, Roy was seeing it in its proper context. He couldn't look away, and didn't want to.

The music picked up, drums rolling like thunder. Robin stood on the bar and began to swing back and forth, back and forth, building up speed. Then his torso twisted and he was spinning around the slim bar, falling out of mid-air pirouette and unfurling until he hung upside-down from the ropes by his splayed ankles.

Robin moved through his routine with lissome power, his body flowing like a silk ribbon. There were moments of breathless weightlessness where he seemed to fall, and the crowd gasped along with each one. As the music swelled, Robin flew off the bar on the upswing, somersaulted four times in an arc through the air, and somehow caught the bar again. It was unreal in the best way, like something out of a dream. Something hollow but sweet swelled in Roy's chest—eventually, he recognized it as _wonder_.

It was one of the most beautiful things Roy had ever seen. And yet—maybe it was the time of night, or the music, but the air under the circus tent felt thick with unnameable emotion. A type of bittersweet awe, and the sense of something missing, and of something ending.

Robin spun through the air one last time. He caught the bar, then shifted fluidly until he hung by one ankle, body parallel to the bar, limbs extended as though he were leaping to catch something just out of his reach. The bar swung back and forth, slowing gently. The music faded and the lights dimmed. For a moment there was stillness and silence—then the crowd exploded into applause and cheers, every one of them on their feet.

Over the noise, Roy just barely heard Artemis say, “Are you okay?” He turned to look—next to him, Miss Martian was shaking, eyes wide, tears streaming down her face.

“I'm fine,” she whispered. “I've just never felt somebody feel so happy and so _sad_ at the same time.”

At the end of Roy's couch, Dick is staring at the carpet, his knees pulled up to his chin. He cradles the beer bottle in his hands, picking at its label. He's made himself incredibly small.

“Is that why you had to get out?” Roy asks softly. “Cuz he can't understand?”

“It's part of it,” he says. Roy nods, waits for him to go on.

“I just...” Dick stops, his mouth working as he tries to find the right words. “Sometimes when I'm with B, I feel like I'm dissolving. Like I'm losing _me,_ because when he looks at me, he's only seeing Robin. And I _know_ that he cares about me, but...it's the way a general cares about a good solider.”

Dick's breath hitches—in anger or in sadness, Roy can't tell, but his eyes are clear. “When I was a kid, that was enough—God, Roy, after my parents died, that was more than I ever thought I'd get. But now...it's _lonely_ , and it's exhausting, and I just need a break. I need space to be myself again.

“I thought you would understand,” Dick says, and he's looking up at Roy again with those startlingly blue eyes, face so open and hopeful that it makes him feel a little sick. Because of course Dick would tell him this—he feels like he's lost his history, his identity, but Roy never had an identity to begin with. He's just a copy, parentless, pastless. Dick can take comfort in knowing that he's not nearly as lost and useless as Roy is.

The anger bursts out of him, sharp and sudden. “Why, because I'm a _clone_?” he spits, more viciously than Dick probably deserves, but he can't convince himself to hold back. “Because unlike you I have no history?”

“ _No,”_ Dick says adamantly. “Roy, I thought you'd understand _because of_ your history. You lost your parents and got adopted by a crazy billionaire too. I just thought maybe you've also feltlike this.”

“ _I_ didn't lose my parents, Dick. The real Roy Harper did. You know that.”

Dick snorts in frustration “You still have the memories, don't you? So it counts.” He's got that steely look in his eyes, the one that means he won't back down even if he gets his teeth punched out. “C'mon, Roy,” he says. His voice is softer, but his eyes are no less determined. “You know none of us think of you like that. _You're_ the Roy Harper I know. _You're_ the real one to me.”

And God help him, Roy believes him, because Dick has been many things over the years but he's never been that cruel.

“Fine,” he says. “Fine, whatever.”

Dick isn't looking at him anymore, and somehow that feels worse. It just gets the better of him sometimes, all the rage and uncertainty and fear that churns in his veins and never, ever shuts up. But he shouldn't have jumped down the kid's throat like that. Dick wasn't looking for a fight. He was just a scared, lonely kid, looking for help in the wrong place.

Roy should say he's sorry. He should reach over to Dick, put a hand on his shoulder and tell him everything's gonna be okay, act like the strong and wise big brother he should be instead of the self-destructive fuck up that he is.

He opens another beer instead, and takes a deep drink.

“Looks like _Dirty Dancing_ is basically over, but it says _Footloose_ is coming up next,” Roy says, fiddling with the remote. Dick doesn't say anything. “You, uh, you like _Footloose_ , right? It's another 80s movie with dancing.”

Dick still isn't saying anything, and Roy punches himself internally for somehow messing this up even more. Then Dick bursts out laughing.

“What?” Roy asks.

“It's like you're my step-dad!” Dick gasps in between giggles. “Are you gonna take me out to Chuck E. Cheese too?”

“Look, do you wanna watch the movie or not, twerp?” Roy doesn't even try to hide the fondness in his voice.

“Yeah, obviously.”

 _Footloose_ is way weirder and more violent than Roy expected. Dick seems to like it, though. Roy runs to the deli downstairs during a commercial break to grab them some sandwiches for dinner. When he comes back, Dick is sliding around in his socks, dancing along to a cheesy montage. Dick tugs at Roy's arms, trying to get him to join him, which quickly turns into Roy trying to catch Dick in a headlock so he can give him a truly righteous noogie. Dick gets in a slick osoto-gari that sends Roy tumbling over the back of the couch, but Roy manages to snag Dick by the waist on the way down.

A few seconds of vicious couch wrestling later and Roy is sitting victorious on Dick's back, the younger boy shaking with giggles below him.

“You brought this on yourself,” Roy says imperiously when Dick gets the hiccups from laughing too hard.

 _Footloose_ is followed by _Grease_ , which Roy is actually secretly into. The exhaustion that Roy saw on Dick's face earlier in the day seems to have caught up to him. He's so worn out he doesn't ask Roy to dance with him again, even when he catches Roy humming along to “Summer Nights”.

An hour in, Dick slumps softly against his shoulder. His eyes are closed, and his breathing is slow and steady—he's fast asleep. He looks peaceful.

Roy should wake him. He should make him call Batman, convince him that running away from your problems won't actually do anything to solve them. Tell him that he knows that from experience, and doesn't want Dick to make the same mistakes he has.

But he doesn't. He shifts Dick slightly so he can get his arm around him, pulls him close so his cheek is resting on his chest. His soft, dark hair brushes against Roy's collarbone. Dick makes a soft little sound, eyelashes fluttering, but doesn't wake. Roy lets him sleep.

 

* * *

 

Four and a half years later, Dick is sleeping on his couch again.

Roy has had a fucking terrible night, so his reaction is more muted than it might have been otherwise. He's just spent four hours sitting on the top of a warehouse in the pouring rain, waiting to bust up a weapons deal that never actually went down. Gun-runners don't like rain either, turns out. At 2 AM he called it quits.

He's expecting Artemis. She'd agreed to watch Lian for him while he was working on this arms dealer case and Jade was off doing something mysterious and probably illegal in New Zealand. She's still up when he gets home, sitting cross-legged in his recliner with the lights out and the television on. When he opens the door, she gives him a little wave and a look that says “Don't be mad.”

Then he sees why. Dick Grayson is stretched out on his couch, fast asleep, one arm dangling down onto the floor. His daughter is snoozing contentedly on his chest, her little hands balled up in his t-shirt. It's both absurdly adorable and mildly infuriating.

“What the fuck,” Roy says, dropping his gear with a heavy _thud_. Lian doesn't wake up, but she does snuggle closer into the crook of Dick's arm, which is also not great.

“I wanted to stay up until you got home. Lian was fussy, so I brought her out here to watch TV with us. She's out like a light now,” Artemis whispers.

“Yeah, Artie, I got that,” Roy whispers back. “I meant _why the fuck is Dick Grayson in my living room_? And why does my daughter seem to think he's the best god damn teddy bear in the world?”

“You should've seen them earlier. She pretty much refused to let go of his hand.”

 _“Artemis_.”

Artemis sighs. In the blue light of the tv, she looks pale and exhausted. “Look, I picked him up after my op in London. I found him sleeping in a park. We talked things through. He knows what he did was shitty, but...he's struggling, Roy.”

“So, what, you're his babysitter now?”

Artemis huffs at him. “Don't be an asshole. I'm his _friend_. Remember, like you used to be?” Roy can't quite meet her eye, but he knows she's glaring at him full-force. “Besides, he's not the only person to fuck up and fail to cope.” And yeah, Roy deserves that one.

“Fine, okay, I take your point,” he says. Artemis nods, satisfied. “Have you told anyone else about this?”

“Not yet,” Artemis says. “He'll reach out soon, when he's ready.” Her eyes drift to Dick's sleeping form. Her gaze is soft and sad.

“Artemis, are you...?”

“Yeah, I'm fine,” she replies. “Well. I will be.”

“Really? Cuz you look like shit.” Judging from the expression on her face, she probably would throw something at him if Lian weren't asleep. And she wouldn't miss. Roy snickers. “Relax, I just meant that you look tired.”

“Well, it's been a hell of a day,” Artemis says, and rests her head in her hand.

“You should get some sleep,” Roy says. “Futon's in the closet in Lian's room, like always.”

Artemis gets to her feet slowly, yawning. She leans down to kiss Lian on the forehead as she passes the couch. Her hand rests softly on Dick's shoulder as she does.

She straightens up and whispers, “Goodnight, Roy.” There's something in her voice, a combination of a warning and a reassurance. _It's him,_ so don't be too hard on him. _It's him,_ so it's okay. Roy raises his eyebrows at her, but she just smiles and shakes her head.

“Night, then,” he says as she pads down the hallway to Lian's room.

Lian doesn't stir as Roy lifts her gently into his arms. He settles into the now-empty armchair and turns off the television. The living room still isn't quite dark. The light from the streetlights outside filters in through the blinds, casting orangey stripes across the couch and the floor. He puts his nose in his daughter's soft hair, breathes in her milky baby scent.

It still hits him hard, sometimes—the reality of her, what it means. She's starting to walk now, tottering little movements that are halfway between running and falling. When she sees him she smiles, makes grabby hands and calls him “Dada.” Jade is “Ma,” Artemis is “Missy.” Soon she'll be talking for real, according to the baby books Dinah gave him.

Roy wonders if she tried to say Dick's name today, if she toddled after him the way she toddles after Artemis. He wonders what he would say if she asked him who Dick was. They're not friends, not exactly. The last time he saw Dick was months ago, at Wally's memorial. They barely spoke. The time before that, Roy nearly took a swing at him.

But Dick is also the guy who still showed up at his apartment when things were really bad, who pulled his head out of the toilet and made him eggs and bacon with a side of concerned lecturing. He's the kid who cried into his t-shirt when Batman fired him, and then again and when Jason died and he thought it was his fault. He's the chirpy, too-tiny eleven year old, grinning up at him despite a black eye and holding his hand out for a fist bump. It doesn't matter how many years it's been—some things never go away.

He'll have to have a talk with Dick in the morning. He's an uncle now, and that comes with responsibilities. Dick had better be at every birthday party, recital, and t-ball game from here on out, no exceptions. But for now, Roy will let him sleep.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! doloploke.tumblr.com


End file.
